


be ye wise as serpents

by dottore_polidori



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackmail, Hero's Journey, M/M, Manipulation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Uneasy Allies, Unorthodox Interpretations of Scripture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 21:15:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14756445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottore_polidori/pseuds/dottore_polidori
Summary: In which Cornelius Hickey demonstrates the most ancient strategies of social advancement: blackmail and seduction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _“Nor let the fools mistake love; for there are love and love. There is the dove, and there is the serpent. Choose ye well! He, my prophet, hath chosen, knowing the law of the fortress, and the great mystery of the House of God.”_  
>  — The Book of the Law
> 
>  _“Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.”_  
>  — Matthew 10:16

It isn’t the first time he’s been used in this manner. Permitted himself to be handled in the promise of favour. Irving grabs his hips roughly, and when he is parted he knows to bite the woolen covering of his shoulder, so to smother the sound at the moment of its birth. Before it is finished, his cheek has been wet with tears and dried. If Irving has noticed he makes no sign, but rubs the sides of his pinpricked thighs in what is almost an apology.

In committing the action to its completion he has not debased only himself, but the both of them equally — and him a commissioned officer, whose duty is to provide the men the guidance they so require. Cornelius guesses this is what he is thinking, as he watches him pretend not to watch him dress. He does not speak, nor meet his eye, his face drawn in contemplation — maybe surprise, or disbelief, at what he has allowed himself to do.

“Tell me, sir. What troubles you?” Cornelius knows. John Irving would be the one in need of comforting, a word of reassurance, a touch — why else had he sought him out? Having so quickly failed to impart his teaching, succumbed to the sin of which he had meant to be the cure. There was a reason he had been spared the lash, and it was not a squeamish aversion to dirtiness, nor mercy for the traitor Gibson, who cast him down so utterly, as Irving did say to him the first time they met upon the ice.

If they are to continue to do this, Cornelius will have to teach him. All manner of things. His inner portion is smarting, as though he has taken a wound, but so does the pit of his gut, at the memory of Billy’s laughter. Yet it is Irving, and not he who needs to be comforted. There are other things that he wants, for which he must wait. Life has been kind to teach him that it does no good to be found reaching for the penny in another’s pocket.

Irving appears impatient to leave, but is bound by a sense of obligation. He looks around, waits to speak until he is certain they will not be intruded upon. Cornelius bites down a grin, amused by the Lieutenant’s sudden preoccupation. Too late, now. They were not so careful when coming down here, romping down the stairs, on supposed duty of inspecting the stores.

“Mr Hickey… This thing we have done,” he says, earnestly, looking at him directly; as much as they can look at each other, here, in the dark. “It must not happen again. We cannot allow ourselves to submit to unlawful desires, or risk harm to the fraying order of our community. If this can be done, then what else will be permitted?”

Cornelius has been expecting this, creases his brow in mock displeasure, gives the voice a plaintive touch. “How do you mean?”

Irving sighs, and speaks, then, softly. His head is bowed like that of the penitent, putting unpleasant truth into words that he be forgiven, and so released from the weight of his wrongdoings. “Warned of your weakness, I took advantage of you. I pray in time that you will forgive me for it. This I ask of you, sincerely. For a time you may hate me. I understand…”

“Need I remind you, Mr Irving, that it was you who came after me?” His voice has hardened, as his heart. Hadn’t he anticipated the sting, steeled himself for it? No matter his reasons for entering into this arrangement, rejection leaves a red bruise, then as now. “You sought me by name, removed me from my duties, that I should accompany you here. For what? I trusted, Lieutenant, that you should help me to good, honest labour. That you should help me to God. Now, not only do you think to discard me, but insult me with your pity. Save your pity…”

Whatever the difficulties of their past, whatever lies told by Gibson to save the skin of his neck, Irving has decided that he bears responsibility for the matter. Cornelius should be more than content with the current balance of power, the potentiality to increase his lot. Instinct shows him the unsubtle way.

“Save your pity for yourself. Sir.”

“I do not mean for us to be enemies, Mr Hickey.”

“What you mean is, you do not want it to get around, yeah? That you pressed me to buggery.” He shakes his head, smiles fox-like at Irving. The stench of fear pervades the air, new sweat layering the stale one of sex. Cornelius is energised in his element. This isn’t the first time he’s been used like this. “Imagine what it must look like. You, an officer and a gentleman, calling me to your side. Asking me to comfort you. I, well, I didn’t know any better, thought I should do everything that you told me to…”

“Damn you to Hell, earthly devil. If I had known you had been setting me up to Fall. I did not ask you to do this for me!”

Cornelius tuts, though Irving looks about ready to strike him. “Let me suggest that you keep your voice down. It is true, you didn’t ask. You took me, which is worse.” He does not smile when he says this. His eyes are wide, and black for the lack of light.

Irving’s face grows white within an instant. _He looks like a dead or dying man_ , thinks Cornelius, with something approaching affection. The man laughs a desperate laugh, and covers his face with his hands, knowing himself to be trapped. When he crumples to his knees, Cornelius joins him, drapes an arm over his shoulders, rubbing the broadness of his back, and Irving lets him. Strangely gentle, he soothes, “Shush, sir. Get it all out, now. There, there. There, there. Let’s get you up before Captain Crozier sends someone looking for you.”

He emerges, red-faced from the effort of keeping himself together. His eyes are wet, and fearful when he asks, “What do you want from me, Mr Hickey?”

Cornelius Hickey smiles pleasantly, as though he has just been asked what he wants for a gift.

“Why, I want to be close to you, Lieutenant. To be the one who helps you, should you have need of a man.”

“Is that all?”

“I will be your man.” He takes the Lieutenant’s hand in his, and presses his mouth to it, firmly. “But for that, you must tell me what is happening. Something queer is going on in this ship. I see you lot skulking about, keeping secrets from the rest of us. It’s all right, I understand — you wouldn’t want us taking matters into our own hands. But I can’t help you if I don’t know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see through the eyes of John.
> 
> A transitional chapter, as events are set in motion.

There is a pressure within his skull during the waking hours, distracting him from his work. Doctor MacDonald holds a lamp to his pupils, observes them contract; he takes his temperature, auscults him; carefully examines the gums, limbs, finds them limber though reduced in mass. This, of course was to be expected — it has been nearly a year since the ships were encased in ice, notwithstanding the coming of the summer. With no port within miles to acquire supplies, no fish or game before the thaw, and the preserves slowly but certainly losing their nutritional qualities, it is no surprise that the physical condition of the crewmen has begun to deteriorate. Not even the officers on their privileged fare are unaffected. There is already talk of the walk overland, and a team has been sent forward, carrying word of their location. There is no date for departure yet, and all are reticent to abandon what they cannot carry. The dull pain behind his eyes is adjudicated to a lack of sleep, no specific disease, yet. So the doctor sends him to bed, suggests that he retire as early as his duties permit it.

“Of all men, you should know that there is a time for work, and a time set aside for resting,” says Doctor MacDonald, not quite admonishing, but very nearly so. “It is unfortunate, yes, that we have lost Sir John. But Captain Crozier will have need of his officers in the coming months. You won’t be in the position to help him if you don’t care to preserve yourself. Get some sleep, John. Overexertion will do you harm.”

That he should be warned by a man so kind, so devoted to his profession causes him to draw within himself, like the spider in his nest. A part of him wants to confess to Doctor MacDonald about the spectre that follows him into the dark. Could he have imagined that? When he is alone, with only God for the company, only God and his thoughts, there is another that lies between them. He gains no rest from sleep, no comfort from his bed. Evil dreams are spawned there, dreams in which he is found out, marked for his aberration before the throng, or worse — dreams pulled from the vault of memory, in which Cornelius kneels, and is further pressed into service, stripped by John of his lower garments.

There must be a cure, at the very least a treatment for this affliction. Doctor MacDonald would know, having read it in some book, and all he need to do was to tell him. Yet when they meet for meals at the officers’ mess, John is all “How do you do”, and logistical preoccupations.

The Captain asks for a tally: how many pounds of beef, how many pounds of mutton, how many pounds of flour, for the making of our daily bread. John keeps a parallel score, which he passes on to the Stranger that walks beside him.

There are times that he considers being made into a eunuch. But when the morning comes, loosely defined in being without a dawn, he replaces the thought to the back of his mind. Who is he to further mangle such charitable gift from the Lord? Removed the troublesome parts, who is to say that his soul would be cured of its yearning? Is the thief saved from greed, severed the offending hand? Even for John, it is too extreme. Instead, he looks to restore the body in other ways, and with it himself, to the Father’s graces. He does not touch himself, though slick and heavy with blood, but stretches the joints of his arms, his legs, relieves the tightness of his neck. Callisthenic repetitions to strengthen the muscle, in the absence of more vigorous activities, stay the degradation of his body. He could run, if the cold did not sear his lungs. He would climb, if the ice did not menace to rip the skin from his bones.

He remembers Mr Hickey, Cornelius — how he scoffed at John’s alternatives to unlawful contact. A matter of the past, now. If they were not so constrained within the ships, perhaps he could be released of his malady — though in all likelihood, Mr Hickey would find somebody else to torment, and John does not want to be responsible for the corruption of another.

(Now, when did he begin to call him by this name, Cornelius, if only in the confines of his mind? He must not allow himself to become familiar, even now.)

It is as though he were never alone. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks to see the creature, glimmering red and white — and he does not mean the bear. During the day, when he is meant to supervise the reorganisation of the crates, he feels the cool eye of the caulker’s mate like a dagger. It makes no matter that when he turns the man is not to be found. For Cornelius Hickey is a man, he reminds himself, neither angel nor a devil. He cannot pass, unseen, like the spirits that populate the imaginations of the unlearned. Cornelius Hickey is flesh and blood — what the colour of his soul? Sullied, the unrepentant wretch — it is an act of faith for John, to consider that even he could be turned to God.

Gone are the days that he believed Cornelius Hickey would follow in his path, look to him for spiritual guidance. On the day that they sinned together, Hickey took his hand and kissed it, pledged to be his man. But the partnership has eroded, with no pretensions to equality. The secret he dangles over John’s head, smiling, in contravention of the natural order: that certain men are to obey, and others to be obeyed. The functions distributed according to their natures, wisely and lovingly by their Maker. The community of the ships is structured in like manner, no part permitted to idle away into uselessness. And yet, John is beginning to doubt the validity of this arrangement, and not only because of the power that Cornelius Hickey has over him. If Captain Crozier is the head, in command of limbs, lungs, heart and stomach, how should it rest so uneasy over God-given shoulders, turn to drink and isolation? John does not, yet, give himself permission to consider the alternative.

John would say that the smile is sweet, or cruelly mocking. He presses a piece of paper to Cornelius’s palm, the discovery of which would have him strung from the neck until his spirit departed its husk. Every time, he is hoping that Cornelius will take a hold of him, stall him from leaving for a moment yet. That he should look at him with the dark eyes of a lover. This he does, but only after John has denied him first. (“Stay with me a while, John. There’s no secrets between us.”) It is a game between them, a competition, and though John has promised to his God that he will continue to resist, every day it is harder not to take the man’s face in his hands, and kiss him.

John has been made to tell him the truth. The soldering on the tins has been poorly done, and the stores are in decrease in spite of the rationing. Hickey had narrowed his eyes, looking pleased, letting the ash of his cigarette accumulate. Perhaps he had already known, needed only confirmation from the source. John remembers now, that it was this act which precipitated the headaches — the sins of the flesh by which he damned himself mere scuffs upon the surface of his soul, compared to willful betrayal. It is a joke, in the grand scheme of things, that in being so occupied with the judgment of men he should have committed a great iniquity. By confirming Hickey’s suspicions, by granting him this gift, John has compromised the lives of every man accompanying them, mindlessly condemned all, in addition to himself. He knows Hickey, that he would poison the men against their command.

How could he hope to be trusted after that?

“Thank you, John,” says Hickey, taking John’s hand between his. “You’ve done well, in telling me this.” Hickey has such pretty hands, like you would not expect of a working man. If it weren’t for the new calluses, and the yellowing stains on his fingertips, John would say they were woman-like.

(A woman of negotiable virtue, if there ever was one. Or is there somebody else he is thinking about?)

“If there comes to be a reckoning — if, and only if — I will speak for you, John. That you had everyone’s best interest in mind. You’re a good man, I will make them see.”

He remembers leaning down to kiss them, not once but many times, the burning of his eyes safely blamed on the smoke of Hickey’s cigarette. He remembers this, and considers going alone into the white.

Cornelius Hickey does not call him Lieutenant anymore. He does not call him Mr Irving. He calls him John, though he has the decency, at least, not to do it in front of the others. A number of the men, he has noticed, look at him with fresh eyes, privy to some secret knowledge. In what manner they have changed, precisely, John is not able to tell. They obey him without question, that much has not changed. How much do they know? How many men has he told? How much is he imagining, wracked with guilt, wishing to be discovered? John avoids dwelling upon these questions.

John does not call him Cornelius. He does not speak the name, at least, though it figures largely in his thoughts. Of the things that can be taken from him, John will not grant him that. Still he longs to meet with the man, observe him at close quarters, dreading what he will ask of him next. Next time it is John who seeks him, orders him to the dead room for repairs. Cornelius appears with his caulking materials, and they go down together, as they always do. To hide from peering eyes, one place is not much different from the other.

There is a legitimate concern underlying the meeting. The wooden door separating the dead men from the living is in the initial stage of being consumed by rats. A hole has been gnawed in the corner, too small yet for a rat to fit its head, and John has figured that it should be caulked, rather than fitted with wood.

“A wise decision, sir. Economical, if I dare say so,” says Hickey, leaving John to bristle at his amusement.

“I did not call you here to discuss the details of your work. I wish we could converse plainly, man to man.”

Hickey has already brought out the bucket of pitch with which to lather the odious opening, brandishes the caulking brush in a careless, sweeping motion.

And John is pleased, in spite of himself. How like a child, innocent in his insolence, is this man, like the wild animals of the Garden.

“Do you want me to do this now, or?”

“Later,” says John, cuttingly, and Hickey sets down his brush. He does not move from his position, crouching at John’s feet, and John takes a step back to have a proper look at him.

He stops to collect his thoughts, rubbing his aching forehead, aware of Hickey’s propensity for derailment. “If you would be frank with me, at least once — tell me what it is you want. What you truly want, Mr Hickey. I am tired of your games.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which marriage is discussed. John offers to make an honest man of Cornelius.

“I’m not a complicated man,” says Hickey, more to himself than to the man asking. “There are tastes,” he shrugs, “that are not easily satisfied. These things I must take for myself. There can be no other way, you see. Men in your position are proud, jealous of your gifts — everything you keep to yourselves. Offer a nibble to the rest of us, convinced that it is your right. Even you, a man of God, wouldn’t offer me a hand if you didn’t trust me to betray you.”

“Do not think to confound me. I will do what is in my power to help you, to give you what you need, if it is not unrighteous.”

John knows him already, his oblique, riddling manner. There he goes again, rubbing his head like one run out of patience. Hickey can tell he is tired of it, all the more reason not to relinquish his superiority. Vexing John pleases him intensely, not merely amuses, but fills him with fondness for the fool. His stomach stirs with pleasure to hear the voice grow soft and familiar under the blunt edge, an afterthought against intruders.

“You help me because you’re afraid, John. Not because you love me.”

“Love!” John laughs, bright with anger. “You never wanted for love. There are other reasons that drew you to me. You sensed my weakness, and tempted me; but it was not I whom you chose for a friend. What will it take for you to be satisfied?”

Poor John. He does not accept, does not give himself permission to understand that Hickey’s want runs deeper than the dessicated fruit, the bitter liqueurs to be taken from the hold.

He means to say: _so long as you live, you will never be free of me_. But that is not the mood for today, and besides, John has had enough of his cruelties. A dalliance might have been forgiven; not so the spilling of commanders’ secrets. Hickey holds the receipt, written by the Lieutenant himself, safely sewn in the pocket of his good blue jacket. (This trick he learned while nesting with a man who’d soon as rob him as take him raw in a back alley.)

He runs his eyes over John’s long body, divining its shape. John shifts; for all his bravery, he is unused to being acknowledged in the physical sense. So prim and proper is he — buttons glinting in the yellow light, after all this time. Now here is a man waiting to be paid, though education impedes him from raising the matter. If England could see this fine son of hers, bowing to the refuse of her shores.

“Even now, you would put me aside. If we are not friends, brothers in Christ,” he looks to John’s face, daring him to flinch or cower. “It was your decision to reject me. Do you ever think, John, that you have something to gain from this? Having paid so dear, there must be something in it for you as well.”

With that he turns to his box, from which he extracts a clump of cotton for the filling of the crack. The fibres he separates between his fingers until translucent, stretches them along the juncture of the planks. Hidden from John, he chuffs with delight. Between his fingers, he rolls a small ball to fill in the parts chewed and digested by the scuttering inhabitants of the hold. The tar is thick as treacle, but he manages an even spread, careful to not leave any pockets that’d compromise the structure’s integrity. This role he has learned and well, and how could he not, with two years’ worth of practice? Should he lose his looks, his mind, and his agility, here is a skill that won’t leave him in want of employment.

Still, he is more interested in what John has to say. The man does not interrupt, not with words; a shadow lengthens over his shoulder, eclipsing the diffuse shine of the oil-lamp. It amuses Cornelius greatly, how far he is able to deny the hunger of his body and soul. Touch being natural and needful as bread and drink, nourishing as meat. For one that does not partake, John preaches at awful length about the joys of friendship between men. The sailors he orders, as he was taught; and relations within his class are not like to improve, either, burdened as he is by these secrets. Surrounded from all sides, he makes the choice to be alone, distract himself with meaningless labour. Near a month has passed since the rough wooing, and John has not sought him out for release. Against all odds, Cornelius is impressed, at the same time that he predicts an end to this misplaced self-restraint.

For John’s deportment is eminently readable. If they are not lovers, he would be surprised if those of their inclination did not at least suspect it. The man is not cautious, hasn’t the experience to disguise his searching look, and his bristling — this, when Cornelius jests, all smiles, with other, more virile men; or when sweet William agrees to share a word, hidden in plain sight of the massed humanity of the lower deck. When they touch hands, and the others avert their eyes.

He smells John before he feels the hand, hesitant, against the back of his skull. Cornelius leans into the touch, having desired for this as well. For all his faults, the man is attractive in his suffering. Severed from the world of women, John paints a monkish ascetic trading underhanded gifts.

“What is that, now?”

A thumb rubs along his scalp, right above his ear, and he sighs. There is an itch that he hadn’t considered. His turning is met with an open-mouthed kiss, and he wonders, idly, was there a woman, before him? No matter, John’s hands are hot around his face. Cornelius welcomes the change, allows himself to be led — one less thing that needs to be taught. (He does not tire from this work, the tasting of the buds on each others’ tongues.) He snakes a heavy hand around John’s chest, scouting the moral and physical defenses of one whose first instinct has been to retreat. Finding no other opening in this preliminary sounding, he settles upon the triangle of his collar — there, he can almost listen to the rushing of the Lieutenant’s blood. The hand is well-placed to stop his spreading across the floorboards; John is bigger and heavier than he, and a right eager lad.

When they break apart, John is licking his lips where Cornelius has worried the skin. He looks down, then back at him, suddenly purposeful.

“I pray for you, Cornelius,” he leans close for the confession, so that he feels the breath against his cheek. It is the first time that he says the name on its own, doing away with the last barrier of his rank. No family, no occupation; only men, sharing in the presence of each other. “Nothing would make me happier than to see you desist from your schemes, and join me,” John struggles to find the words, but remains hopeful in his proposal. “Join me for the long walk back. Please. We are both strong. We can help each other, let our friendship be an example to the men. No two creatures on this fine Earth are less alike than you and I: if they could see us, walking together, working together for the common good! Captain Crozier’s an Antarctic veteran…”

Cornelius interrupts by laughing. He’s almost sorry to disrupt this music hall romance. Hapless gentleman or lecherous priest, promising baubles — the two are superimposed on the figure of John, a man supremely out of his element in the seduction of clever, worldly Cornelius.

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you, John? We are men. _Grown_ men, and yet you look to miracles to keep us safe. As far as I can remember, you haven’t made me your wife, to lie to my face like that.”

John does not relent. He blushes, cheeks red as apples. “I meant what I said, and I’ll stand for it.”

Cornelius hums, presses his face up to John’s face. Before long they are rubbing their beards together, scratching each other, then kissing again, soft and slowly. John melts into the touch, muffling a moan, perhaps a secret sob. It makes no difference in the least. It is not that Cornelius possesses an exceptional quality. John would have become attached to any man or woman that so much as threw him a scrap of affection. That would explain the religious obsession; if his god is with him, he cannot be truly alone. How many years has he been at sea? How long has he spent unloved, and unregarded? Even Billy had a girl back home, or so he’d said. Poor John! Poor fool.

“If only I could make you understand. All shall be well, Cornelius! All shall be well. No — no, if you would let me finish. I had been having doubts as to my purpose — after what you asked me to do. But I forgive you for that, I forgive you completely. To survive this calamity, we must let ourselves be renewed — leave every dark and evil deed behind us, and live in service to one another, as a fellowship. We were meant to be, you and I, here of all places. I believe it is my duty to redeem you, I am certain of it now.”

“Now? How do you mean, _now_?” It takes him a moment, but what is being referenced is clear enough. His face twists in the cheekiest expression, deepening the lines of his narrow face. “After we kissed, you mean?” He clacks his tongue mildly, but softens the look, giving a pat to John’s lapel. “If you wanted that, why din’t you say so? Which of our captains shall agree to marry us, d’you reckon? We should start with Fitzjames, the man looks like he’s swallowed…”

“Perhaps I should go.” John has that ragged look again, and the work, after all, is finished. But Cornelius stops him from rising, holding fast to the buttons of his coat.

“You are too serious, you know that? Stay a bit, and listen to what I have to say.”

*

John is the first volunteer for the hunting party, though months have passed since a living thing was sighted from the deck. The monstrous bear that claimed the lives of Lieutenant Gore and their erstwhile captain, Sir John Franklin, hasn’t been seen since the Netsilik woman left the ship, carrying her bone-carved idols in a little sack. What sort of magic she could have worked against these interlopers, unwitting murderers of her kin, John has but a faint idea, but he is relieved, nonetheless, to see the danger departed. One less factor left unknown, and he is safer; _they_ are, indeed, safer. _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_ , so it is written. But also they are the strangers in this empty land, with no recourse but to their own wits, and her people’s mercy. Like the ragged band of Moses, the men of Franklin are a community of orphans and exiles.

According to his calculations, summer is fast approaching. But the landscape has not changed. Where they stand, there is only ice, and southward the barren shingle of King William Land; under the ice, the interminable bounty of the sea. He feels his mind turning to the archaic tales of Creation, the world spoken into being. How it must have been, when the Earth was separated from the waters. The fibre of his soul distresses; they have never been so far from the Garden. Not even lichens grow for the eating, and of the animals, there is only rat. Rats, and cats, and Cornelius, of course, the tabby tiger. God, the steadfast lover, has granted him a boon in the shape of a friend. His soul keens, but it is soothed by prayer and contemplation, and now, too, by the company of this fellow whom he used to hate, in his ignorance reject. So long as John is there to help and to correct him, Cornelius Hickey will not turn to evil, be cleansed of past infractions by virtue of his deeds.

Now that he sees beyond his rough manner, and the circumstances of his birth, there are qualities that John can admit to admire. His silver tongue makes him friends, and his cunning the manner to use them — and this, with barely the rudiments of an education. John wonders who’d have been the one to teach him: a relative, a friend, a Sunday school missionary? The man does sums and reads, and what he reads he does not forget. The morning after the dead-room meet, Cornelius had greeted him with humorous formality, slipped a scrap of paper into his coat. John all but rushed to his cabin to destroy the note, glad that it should be finished. Later that night, as he was readying for bed, he found Cornelius waiting for him by the stair. Positively glowing with cheek, and for one good reason. He had memorised the thing entirely.

If — when — they return to England alive, John will see to Cornelius’s education, and he does not mean the crude institutions that make golems out of working men.  


“Lieutenant Fairholme might yet arrive to preserve us from our fate.” He straightens out the collar of his sealskin gear and accommodates the scarf underneath, taking full advantage of this rare opportunity to touch the skin of his friend. “It might come to naught.”

“Still we must prepare for a bad end.” Cornelius shrugs, and stands there waiting for John to stop fussing.

“When the time comes, you will make your suggestion known.” John hopes his cheer is contagious, though perhaps Cornelius is not the person with whom to try. He must appear strong and ready, an inspiration to the rest. “For now, we go forward, like you said.”

Of the volunteers, he picks Tom Hartnell to go with them. They have half the crew to choose from, most of them tired of the usual entertainments, growing restless of the cramped quarters of the lower deck, day after day, night after night of hammocks brushing against each other. Regular work is scarce, not an alternative for the most of them. John is comfortable in the company of this all-around reliable man. It is an advantage that Tom knows how to shoot a gun, like Cornelius does not — not that John would put a weapon in his hands. There will be time enough for proving his loyalty.

Both the remaining captains bid them a safe return — jovial Fitzjames and taciturn Crozier, half-filled with drink. They go south, the only plausible direction for them so forward-looking. Other teams turn east and west, looking for a quick return, finding nothing. Southward is caribou country, if the girl told them right, God bless her pagan soul. And if the bear comes instead, they will bring back cuts of its oily meat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Irving inaugurates his arctic ministry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for any and all unorthodox interpretations of Scripture.

Man makes a poor beast of burden, but what they have is little enough that the three of them can pull and progress. Their small sledge carries a tent, a furnace, tinned food, water, cooking utensils, sleeping bags, fuel, and ammunition. Lieutenant John Irving and the sailor Hartnell have guns slung over their shoulders, which Cornelius does not envy. They look to be cumbersome things, additional straps to the one cutting into their muscle with every step of the way. It is not so bad as it could be, but he’s not used to this kind of work. Day after day of the same motion, the same joints rotating, wearing, grinding down to the bone. Stopping only for John to have a look through his spyglass, or when he decides it is time for a rest, and they sit to heat the contents of their poisoned tins.  
  
Cornelius watches his friends. Tom Hartnell takes it without complaint. For many years he has been a sailor; no doubt he has had worse, or at least as bad, in terms of toil. He and his brother had first signed up together, he’d said, as lads of less than twenty. After many adventures, they had thought to make the passage together, be the pride of the family and the toast of all their friends. But Jack Hartnell had drowned in his lungs when they wintered at Beechey, same as Torrington and Braine. They buried him in Tom’s second-best shirt, a reminder that they should meet again after death. Such are the dreams of men. Now it seems neither of the Hartnells will get to see the Pacific, with John’s talk of the walk overland, and the ice unlike to thaw, so far that they have seen. He seems to suspect as much, grown sombre over the past months; if they do not make it, Jack’s death will have been for nothing.  
  
Still, he does what he’s told, and will continue to do so for some time yet, so long as there is a steady hand to guide him.  
  
John Irving is doing what he should not. Hickey likes to think it is because of his influence.  
  
Crozier’s orders had been clear. If in three days they have not found game, they should be heading back to the ships. But John is pressing them further south with an inexplicable certainty.  
  
Cornelius watches how the lieutenant finishes his beans and buries his nose into his silly little book. He looks to his own plate and confines the smile to his eyes, so that John does not see. Now that they are in confidence of one another, the man has taken to _asking_.  
  
When he is in a good mood, he will read to them a passage, sometimes an entire story. His excitement is contagious — how he begins to gesticulate, so unlike himself — how he explains the words into something comforting. The set of Hartnell’s shoulders relaxes, distracted from the usual thoughts, and at the end he is smiling, “I pray that God provides for us just as well, sir.”  
  
“He will, Mr Hartnell, He will,” he had said the day before. “We have only to trust in ourselves and each other. And keep faith, for all to be well.”  
  
To hear him talk at length of what he knows and loves diverts Cornelius, though he be put off by the usual displays of zealotry, common prelude as it is to judgment.  
  
It is the middle of the fourth day, and they have not turned back. John sits silent and scowling.  
  
“Won’t you be reading for us today, sir?” pipes Cornelius. The look that he gives to John is sweet, but wasted on one startled out of concentration. John Irving does not turn to him, but closes his eyes, rubs over them with his fingers.  
  
“I haven’t decided upon what to read to you yet. I’ll have something ready for when we make camp for the night. You should rest for the moment.” He smiles briefly to them both in an attempt at fatherly assurance, but lingers on Hickey for a moment longer. Hickey blinks, slowly. That is his sign for a kiss. When John returns to his Bible, his smile is changed, and his cheeks burn red like he has remembered something private. Cornelius is inordinately pleased to have altered his mood, though it be so easy to do so.  
  
An hour’s rest and the walk is resumed, again, south. Confusion passes quickly from Hartnell’s face, same as it had in the morning; the furrowed brow, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He wants to ask, but it is not yet the moment. Like Hickey, he must realise that the lieutenant will tell them himself, when he has gathered his courage and his reasons.  
  
A disadvantage of doing things by the book is that the mildest deviation rings of transgression, disobedience. The lieutenant is not used to it; an air of guilt hangs heavy over his head, in spite of Cornelius’s efforts to disperse it, like an ill humour. Even Tom Hartnell’s trusting obedience comforts him not. John Irving is used to being the instrument of some captain or other, permitted to make a choice when it doesn’t interfere with the command from above. What had Crozier said to him? A shame it had been Jopson to attend to this meeting, and not his Billy, all ears and naught but stuffing between them.  
  
Bless him and his budding sweetness. He will give it to Hickey when he returns laden with gifts. The evangelist himself had shared with them some words on the subject, just the other day: Thou shall not muzzle the ox… For the labourer _is_ worthy of his reward. Billy will surrender with gratitude, part those white legs for his one and only. Until then he has John, waiting on his pleasure. The one who would smite him now smitten, taken a personal interest in the restoration of his Christian soul.  
  
These matters can amuse but there are more important things on his mind. Cornelius Hickey is out here to learn. To know the lay of the land through his own senses, not rely on stories cut with boastful imagination, or tampered the memory with illness or fear. Hasn’t he eyes, ears, hands of his own for the feeling? There is no sure plan as it were, but he will seize this advantage as it has presented itself.  
  
The land is easier going than the ice, an expanse of shale rising into low-lying hills at the edge of their vision. They will be passable, when the time comes. A hard and windy place; at least, it lacks the jagged edge with which to cut them. So far they have done well, the rested meat hardening into muscle, but the thought is nagging: they have done so well for being few, and carrying what is needful, no more. He will tell John of the necessity of traveling light, and maybe he will agree. He is not a stupid man, though set in his ways, and even these he has proved have the chance of thawing. But will command open their ears to a suggestion from below? He must forget about this for the moment. It is not the time.  
  
Tom Hartnell and he set up the tent, canvas and iron beam, in a dip of the terrain. John Irving lights the furnace, begins to warm the tins for their sustenance. When the work is done, he makes them pray, or rather prays for them. The three of them are kneeling and Cornelius closes his eyes, but it is not God he is listening for. John’s voice is steady: may he be coming into himself? Does this make them equals, as a free man to another? No, the man is not ripe, though some day he might be, if circumstances allow him to live. He had been tense and fearful, in some respects is still, but now he is testing the waters. Away from the judgmental eye of the supervisor, with but two at his charge — and both of them friends, so far as he is concerned.  
  
He goes on about Moses again. The years spent in the wilderness, with God’s people become shepherds when in Egypt they had been builders and tillers of the earth. Nomads in tents not very different from their very own. He senses here an echo of their words exchanged: _Only forward_. He must have remembered this story when they spoke. “In these ships we will meet our deaths. For this, I will go south with you. But promise me we will not look back on what we have lost, or what we had to gain. We go only forward.”  
  
“Moses perished, but his people were delivered to the land of Canaan, where they took wives and multiplied. They became cultivators of the land again, and they lacked for nothing, for the earth was rich, and the rains plentiful as God had promised to them.”  
  
The two fools are ready to believe it. Not so Hickey, who has known hunger having done nothing to deserve it. Buried and unburied he’d be by now, to make place for another wretch, had he waited for God to feed him of his own hand. Again, the smile he hides in his eyes. He does not mean to be disrespectful, but his face moves of its own volition.  
  
“Is there something you would like to share with us, Mr Hickey? As concerns scripture.”  
  
The lieutenant is adamant to convert him, and so he must play the part.  
  
“When it says that God remembers the people lamenting, does this mean that he forgot them? Even for a moment.”  
  
John’s expression hardens, but he speaks, soon enough, “He did not forget them, but His people had turned their backs on Him, made sacrifice to the gods of Egypt. But that is not what you are asking for, is it? You would like to know whether He should help us to live.” He pauses. “That has not been written. If it is His will, we shall be safely returned.”  
  
Can he believe this? Gentlemen are all the same — with their fancy logic, faith, or whatever discourse has come into fashion. Hickey keeps a straight face, though Hartnell looks to him curious — “Never took you for a spiritual man, Mr Hickey” — Irving expectant. But to him the conversation is finished, so he begins to unpack his sleeping bag, when Irving speaks once more.  
  
“We should not return empty handed, if it were possible. So, we will continue south, until we encounter game. We should advance for three days, no more, so to conserve our energies.”  
  
“All right, sir.” Hartnell is satisfied with this version; the man wants no trouble. “I’m grateful for the chance to stretch our legs, at least.”  
  
“Remember to clean your gun in the morning, Mr Hartnell. Every day grows warmer; it won’t be long until we reach the pastures. We must be ready then.”  
  
Hartnell nods in earnest, and Hickey considers the ease with which the lieutenant’s words have influenced his state of mind.  
  
John Irving must be feeling like one of them prophets, leading his people through the interminable desert. Forty years: meaning the same as an eternity.  
  
Hickey winces. He has spent so much time with John the evangelist here that the logic of his religion has begun to insinuate itself in his thoughts. A dangerous thing, superstition, and easily caught, especially here. He cannot afford to be so careless. Separated from the rest, in this waste land, the mind can turn queer, the taste and colour of the air altered to suit the fancies of a mad man — that is, until it meets the hard reality.  
  
The first watch is his, and second is Hartnell’s, but John Irving stays out for a moment, pretending to count the supplies remaining, though he had been the one to serve them. Finally he says, as though all the time he had been thinking about it, “Our God is a jealous god. He cannot abide to share His love with another.”  
  
The guilty curve of his back indicates a double meaning, but ignorance is safer, and having John explain himself always a delight. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning, sir.”  
  
“Your question, Mr Hickey. He was punishing Israel for their faithlessness. We should keep that in mind, lest we suffer a similar fate.”  
  
“But he brought them out, didn’t he? Didn’t matter, what lovers they’d taken in his absence.” He closes the distance between them, near to the entrance of the tent, hoping that Tom be the witness to the meeting of their shadows. John bows his head — for he is only John, when they are alone — foreheads touching like they haven’t since their setting out. Their noses are dry as sick dogs’, but John tears away into the tent, leaving Hickey to wonder how long it would take for him to melt, pressed against that strong body.  
  
In the absence of a gun, his prick is hard in his hand, slipped up his sealskin gear, reached past the band of the usual trousers. He does not jerk but fondle, like the head of a cherished weasel, revisiting how John the virgin had hurt him. Splayed him on his knees against the floor and breached him without preparation. How he’d smarted for days, hating him, at the same time grateful he hadn’t to think of the other man to wrong him.  
  
This much, at least, he deserves. An imagining: nothing has ever happened on watch, his or otherwise. He has only to wait until the time is done, so he can lie down behind the man and reach… Now, that would be nice. John must be lying awake, thinking about it as well. Pondering this very moment whether he should have gripped him in his hands and —  
  
The boulder moves, illumined by the waxing moon and arctic constellations. Cornelius forgets then, all of his mean and petty thoughts — forgets time, and the use of his limbs, and the duties entrusted him by his fellows. There exists only the thing at the top of the hill, and the chasm of its black eyes, peering. Deigning to look, like John’s god never could, into the confines of his soul.  
  
A rock in his hand, bloodied. The fermenting smell of a soft apple. Running with pockets heavy, seams ready to tear at any moment. The images are true, and he is seen. He is seen.  
  
Cornelius fancies that it gives a nod, when it finally turns, and departs over the ridge on the horizon.  
  
There is no doubt as to the beast’s identity. He lets out the stale air of his lungs, gasping, shuddering. It is the bear that ate John Franklin and four of the others, hunted the lead parties on the pack ice. Now it had let them alone, regarding him and gone back to the place where it had come. Still it had followed them, miles and miles into the shale. He laughs quietly, holding himself to put an end the shaking.

It is no use, until he learns to breathe again.

What is the meaning of this, this vision of the north?


End file.
